And Ramuntcho, standing, not daring to touch her,
wept heavy tears, without noise, turning his head,—while,
in the distance, the parish bell began to ring the
curfew, sang the tranquil peace of the village, filled
the air with vibrations soft, protective, advising
sound sleep to those who have morrows—
The following morning, after having confessed, she
passed out of life, silent and haughty, having felt
a sort of shame for her suffering,—while
the same bell rang slowly her agony.
And at night, Ramuntcho found himself alone, beside
that thing in bed and cold, which is preserved and
looked at for several hours, but which one must make
haste to bury in the earth—
Eight days after.
At the fall of night, while a bad mountain squall
twisted the branches of the trees, Ramuntcho entered
his deserted house where the gray of death seemed
scattered everywhere. A little of winter had passed
over the Basque land, a little frost, burning the
annual flowers, ending the illusory summer of December.
In front of Franchita’s door, the geraniums,
the dahlias had just died, and the path which led to
the house, which no one cared for, disappeared under
the mass of yellow leaves.
For Ramuntcho, this first week of mourning had been
occupied by the thousand details that rock sorrow.
Proud also, he had desired that all should be done
in a luxurious manner, according to the old usages
of the parish. His mother had been buried in
a coffin of black velvet ornamented with silver nails.
Then, there had been mortuary masses, attended by the
neighbors in long capes, the women enveloped and hooded
with black. And all this represented a great
deal of expense for him, who was poor.
Of the sum given formerly, at the time of his birth,
by his unknown father, little remained, the greater
part having been lost through unfaithful bankers.
And now, he would have to quit the house, sell the
dear familiar furniture, realize the most money possible
for the flight to America—
This time, he returned home peculiarly disturbed,
because he was to do a thing, postponed from day to
day, about which his conscience was not at rest.
He had already examined, picked out, all that belonged
to his mother; but the box containing her papers and
her letters was still intact—and to-night
he would open it, perhaps.
He was not sure that death, as many persons think,
gives the right to those who remain to read letters,
to penetrate the secrets of those who have just gone.
To burn without looking seemed to him more respectful,
more honest. But it was also to destroy forever
the means of discovering the one whose abandoned son
he was.—Then what should he do?—And
from whom could he take advice, since he had no one
in the world?
In the large chimney he lit the evening fire:
then he got from an upper room the disquieting box,
placed it on a table near the fire, beside his lamp,
and sat down to reflect again. In the face of
these papers, almost sacred, almost prohibited, which
he would touch and which death alone could have placed
in his hands, he had in this moment the consciousness,
in a more heartbreaking manner, of the irrevocable
departure of his mother; tears returned to him and
he wept there, alone, in the silence—
